


If Only Allen Ginsberg Were Here

by alittlepieceofgundamwing_archivist



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: 6x3; but that is not the main pairing here, ? x Milliardo, Alternate Universe, Lemon, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Weirdness, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14200359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlepieceofgundamwing_archivist/pseuds/alittlepieceofgundamwing_archivist
Summary: by Reverand Maynard--Absolutely /not/ about a beatnick poet . Milliard has an encounter with a familiar stranger in a grocery store . . . and learns a few things about himself.





	If Only Allen Ginsberg Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dacia, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [A Little Piece of Gundam Wing](https://fanlore.org/wiki/A_Little_Piece_Of_Gundam_Wing), which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after July 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [a little piece of gundam wing collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlepieceofgundamwing/profile).

Every person has a fantasy. Some people may not admit or even acknowledge it. Shame or guilt at telling their deepest darkest desires and the deprivation that may dwell there keeps their lips tight, serving only to fan the fire by attempting to quell it. Still others seek out their fantasies, finding the thrill of role-play enough to sate their appetites, or going even further and paying hard cash for what they truly want. Anything can be bought, after all.  
  
But then there are those of us lucky enough to have that fantasy fall handsomely into our laps. Perhaps it is chance, perhaps merely luck, but in any case--it is a dream come true.  
  
\+   
  
A sleek silver Mercedes pulled slowly into the dimly lit parking lot of a 24-hour supermarket, gravel crunching beneath its heavy wheels. The car stopped. The door opened, and a figure emerged into the warm night air.  
  
The man's long legs were the first to appear, clad in black slacks that flowed loosely about his ankles when he walked, falling to the tops of polished black oxfords. As he stood from the vehicle, the first thing one noticed was the glowing fall of blond hair that blanketed his shoulders and back, wisping around his white button-down dress shirt. His complexion was a pale tawny, and the only marring feature one might notice was a slight redness that ran beneath his eyes, evidence of the late hours he'd kept lately.  
  
He shut the car door hard and turned to face the flickering neon light that named the place, his aqua eyes sparkling red from the glow.  
  
"Food Tiger," he mumbled to himself, reading the sign and sighing, "that's what you fucking get for all your hard effort, Peacecraft."  
  
Pocketing his keys, he regarded the parking lot, empty but for his own car and a more than ten-year-old sedan. At any other time of the day, heads would have turned to watch him step out of his vehicle, women would gape openly, little girls would giggle, and even some of the men would stare for a moment, looking away quickly, finding shame in admiring another man. And to all of this, the blond remained perfectly oblivious.  
  
But at 2:45 a.m. there was no one there to stare or gape. He was grateful to find at least one person attending the store.  
  
The door creaked open noisily and a bell rang as he walked through the store's entrance, the sickly fluorescent light penetrating his weary eyes, making him wince. Small but well stocked, the store's shelves were crammed with cans and boxes. He passed the counter and the attendant sitting behind it, his shoes clinking loudly against the linoleum with every step. The attending woman was young and stout, with a sour face and her nose stuck deep into a magazine. She didn't look up as he passed, but gave a tired 'hello' by way of greeting. He was too sympathetic to think her rude.  
  
As head accountant, for the largest firm in town, Chang, Yuy & Barton, Milliardo Peacecraft was wholly devoted to his work. He had been with them for several years and was currently making more money in a year than most men saw in their entire lives. So when several days before, Mr. Yuy contacted him late in the evening with a severe crisis on his hands, Milliardo had rushed into the office and had hardly been out since. Doughnuts and coffee had become his main form of sustenance and his neck felt as if it were shaped like the arm of a couch.  
  
But the worst part of that time was the torture of working alongside his gorgeous lover and never finding the time to be alone. His current conquest, Trowa Barton, had been at his side for much of those three days, sharing a sofa, workspace, allowing Milliardo to breathe in his scent and watch him prance about the office in jeans and bare feet. The stimulation had been unbearable at times. In short, all work and no fuck makes Milliardo a frustrated boy. But it seemed that every moment he spent with the young attorney was also spent with someone else. They were never alone. The only relief he found was a few early morning sessions spent with himself in the bathroom, his own low moans bouncing back to him from the cold white walls of the men's room.  
  
When at long last they had finished their work earlier this evening, or this morning rather, Milliardo had seen a light at the end of the tunnel. But much to his disappointment, Trowa had fallen asleep on the ride home and he didn't have the heart to wake his sleeping koi, though the rest of him was more than willing.  
  
A sudden memory of carrying the other man to his room, undressing him and putting him to bed, flooded his tired thoughts. He had watched Trowa sleep for a time, the darkly tanned nude body moving languidly over starched white sheets, gossamer lashes feathering over pink cheeks, and his pretty cock lying softly against his inner thigh. He ached at the memory.  
  
Somewhat dizzy with lust and uncertain of his self control, Milliardo had left Trowa's apartment quickly, running to his car and stomping hard on the gas. And so here he was, at the 24-hour Food Tiger, determined that if he couldn't have sex, he'd at least have a decent meal.  
  
'Good luck finding it here,' he thought, rounding the corner and searching for the produce aisle. He found it near the back of the store, a row of coolers aged beyond their useful years yet still thrumming with their stubborn life. The vegetables, in contrast to their surroundings, were fresh and plump. 'Perhaps a salad would be nice,' he thought, 'yes, a salad.'  
  
Bending at the waist, he leaned forward to pick up a red, ripe tomato from among its peers. The fruit was firm but pliable, and he squeezed it gently, testing its ripeness. And then, without warning, he felt a hand clutch his right buttock, kneading the flesh in the same manner that he handled the tomato. He moved to stand upright, surprise filling him, tinged with anger. But then a body was pressed against his back. Arms came down sternly at his sides, hands no longer on his ass. They locked him in now. The body pushing him forward, making the edge of the cooler dig into the tops of his thighs. He couldn't turn his head to see his violator, they were too close, and all within seconds.  
  
"What are you--" he began, his voice irritated and surprised.  
  
"Shhhhh," came a soft hissing whisper in is ear, "calm now, lovely."  
  
Milliardo felt the man's knee move against his outer leg to replace that hand at his right side. The body behind him shifted and was accompanied by the sound of metal clanking, and leather creaking. 'What is this?' he thought swiftly, and then he felt an unmistakable hardness pressing against his ass cheek.  
  
"Let go of me." Milliardo seethed through clenched teeth, pushing backward and thrashing a little in an attempt to be released. He was strong , but the stony force that pinned him to the cooler was strong too, and probably, Milliardo thought, stronger in their convictions as well.  
  
As much as Milliardo hated being snuck upon, and hated even more being held captive, something about the entire situation excited him. Whether it was the sudden and unexpected nature of the encounter, the raging hard on that pressed into his backside, or the biting smell of leather that caught his nose every time he made a resistant move, something was driving him wild.  
  
"My God . . ." the voice was still hissing, "you are beautiful," a hand was at his neck, pushing his hair to the side to place a warm mouth, wet lips, against his skin, "especially when you fight back . . ."  
  
Milliardo had stilled now, the scorching mouth on his throat was licking and kissing at the sensitive flesh. Tingles and sparks flew through his spine, running and flittering through his stomach and exploding in his cock. He sucked in a sharp breath, and then relaxed his head and neck, leaning it back onto the other man's shoulder, pleasure shuddering through him.  
  
Thoughts of the past few days ghosted across his mind, the tedious work, the long frustrated hours, the nearly perpetual erection he'd sported for being too close to his lover. And then there was this. It seemed so surreal, so impossible, so . . . wonderful.  
  
"Who . . . who are you?" a whisper of a question.  
  
In answer, the hand in his hair ran down the length of his back, dragging a hard thumb across his tense muscles. It snaked around his side and to the front of his pants, not yet grasping his hardness but coming teasingly close.  
  
"I'm the one," the gruff voice began, no longer whispering but quiet still, "who's going to nail your sweet ass into the wall." He punctuated his word with a rough thrust of his hips. Milliardo felt the cooler's edge dig harder into his thighs but the pain was ignored as the teasing hand moved to cup the hardening bulge in his pants, massaging it through the soft material. "And I'm the one who's going to have you screaming my name," a hard squeeze, "as I nurse your delicious cock," another squeeze, "hard and hot," another, "until you come into my mouth."  
  
"Unhhhh . . ." Milliardo moaned. The man's words and actions were driving him insane, he felt his cock growing rock hard in the man's grip, a stranger's grip. Or was it a stranger? Even with the flux of desire invading his body, making him dumb with lust, Milliardo couldn't help but notice the familiarity he found in the man's voice. It was too deep to be Trowa's, besides, Trowa was at home snoring. And similarly ill-fitting of his last lover, Treize. Still, the raspy tone, the deep throaty words were like home to him, welcoming and familiar. The mystery excited him more.  
  
Milliardo's hands had been idle, lacking the conviction to truly attempt an escape, but now they reached upward and back. He clutched at the man's neck, pulling his head closer to him, wanting those talented lips back on his throat. His fingers ran through thick, silky hair. He could tell by the weight of it that it was long, perhaps as long as his own.  
  
The man replied to the demanding touches by lowering his mouth again, tasting and nipping at the salty flesh. "My," the words were muffled against Milliardo's skin, "aren't we receptive?" The hand at Milliardo's crotch began an exploration. Milliardo heard his zipper being undone, felt the front of his cotton briefs being pushed down, fingernails scraping over his abdomen. And then cool fingers touched his aching cock, sparking a fire in his groin despite the frosty contact. The space in his pants was too crowded to allow much access, but the man's deft fingers rubbed and stroked his length with delicious efficiency.  
  
"Hahhh . . ." Milliardo breathed hard, arching his back, pushing his hips forward, thrusting into that cold touch. The mouth was still working at his throat and the need to know who the glorious creature behind him was had long been forgotten. He was lost in a sea of ecstasy now. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed against him full force, drenching him in their churning waters. Yet somehow, despite his heady state, he heard the shocked whisper from the end of the aisle.  
  
"Criminey!" The attending woman stood half hidden behind a display of lemons, and sunk back even further when Milliardo turned his head to see who had spoken. His eyes took a moment to adjust, and his brain took a moment to remember where he was, who she was and even who he was. The look on her face was comical. It was as if she were watching a freak show, half excited half terrified. He wondered if he and his stranger lover looked like a two-headed monster--a masturbating two-headed monster. Their exhibitionism excited him more but he felt uncomfortable under the woman's glare. It took a great deal of effort to form coherent words.  
  
"Puhh . . .please . . . . not hereahhh . . ."  
  
"Where then?" The man asked, not halting his ministrations to Milliardo's throbbing cock, "shall I throw you onto the floor? Or better we could mosey over to the meats section and I could fuck you over the pot roast."  
  
"Anywhere, I don't care . . .just--OH GOD you have to stop!" He felt himself ebbing at the point of release and that was not what he wanted. He wanted the man to keep his promise, to suck him and fuck him. A hand job, however sweet this one was, was something he could have done himself.  
  
"Whatever you want," was the man's reply as the torturous hand was removed from his pants and he felt strong arms whirl him around and then stop him. He had his eyes closed tight as he felt hot breath on his lips and then that scorching mouth was on his. They clashed in a feverish kiss, lips crushing lips, teeth scraping teeth, tongues warring in a slow, wet battle. Milliardo felt the stranger's erection pressing into his and he pushed forward, grinding them together. The man relinquished first to suck in a deep breath at the contact.  
  
"Open your eyes," he said to Milliardo's flushed face, licking at reddened lips.  
  
'My God,' Milliardo thought, 'that voice is so familiar.'  
  
"No," he said aloud, "I like it like this. Just . . . find some other place."  
  
They kissed passionately again before the man spoke, a small smile audible in his voice, "Whatever you want."  
  
Milliardo felt the man pull away and was instantly cold at the loss. Then a strong hand took hold of his upper arm, directing him further into the depths of the small building. His fly was still open and cool air drifted in, cooling his hot flesh, caressing it like the hand that had so recently been there. The man at his side jingled and creaked a little when he walked, and his steps sounded heavier than Milliardo's. 'Boots, perhaps?' Milliardo asked himself, and he began to imagine vivid pictures of what the other man might look like. A long-haired biker with boots and spurs, or perhaps it was a policeman, out for more than a patrol. The different images fueled his excitement even more and his cock twitched at the thought of handcuffs clanging against a leather, studded belt. A man wearing a blue uniform top, his naked ass tensing rigidly, his fat cock pummeling into him. 'Oh God,' he thought again, 'I'm going to come right now.'  
  
Seconds passed as they walked, and then he heard a door open and was led into an even cooler room. A slight scent of toilet cleanser stung his nose, but was immediately replaced by that same pungent aroma of leather. He heard the door shut and lock and eager hands pushed him blindly backward until his thighs hit something hard. 'It must be a bathroom,' he thought and the thing he leaned against, a sink. This was getting better by the second.  
  
"Turn off the lights," he commanded, and a moment later the world beyond his eyelids turned black. He opened his eyes to pitch darkness. The hands on him were gone now and the room was deathly silent. A moment's panic struck him as he thought perhaps he had been abandoned. Could his stranger have left him? But no, a beat later insistent lips were on his. Clumsy in the dark, they first kissed his chin and then worked their way up. It was a chaotic, sloppy kiss, but all the more delicious for its frenzy. The other man's body pushed him against the sink, nimble, quick fingers were working at his buttons.  
  
"Your mouth tastes so sweet," were the first words his stranger spoke to him since they had entered, "but I wonder about the rest of you."  
  
Milliardo grasped the sides of the cold porcelain sink as those hands, those lips moved over his now exposed chest, kneading his muscles, lapping at pert nipples. It was like liquid fire every where that mouth touched until it moved along its way, leaving the skin wet and cold. The man wasted little time in his journey and Milliardo soon felt the fingers unbuttoning his pants, pulling him forward, away from the sink, and slipping his trousers, his briefs down over slender hips.  
  
When the chilly air hit his exposed erection he cried out and and sank back against the sink, only to find the porcelain slick and frigid against his thighs and buttocks, making him hiss a little. The sound of leather and metal came again as the man lowered himself to his knees and Milliardo felt the now warm hands rubbing his thighs, teasing his cock even more with their tender touch. The hands were calloused and made a distinct flesh-on-flesh sound as they moved around their target.  
  
"I wish I could see you," the voice below him was booming in the wake of such delicate noises, "I'll bet your cock is beautiful." He felt the words now too as the man's face, that hot mouth moved closer to his twitching erection.  
  
"Is it?" he asked, "is it beautiful?"  
  
Milliardo's blood was boiling now, the man's teasing becoming too much. "I . . . I don't kn--AHHHH!" A scorching wetness enveloped him as he tried to reply and he cried out from the shock of the sudden onslaught. An exploring tongue dipped into the slit at the head, tasting his precum, and a warm hand gripped the base of his shaft.  
  
He felt himself growing even harder in the man's mouth, his cock weeping with his excitement. The man had already swallowed half of his length and was urgently suckling, bobbing his head slightly. His hand was removed and he felt the muscles of the man's throat relax around him, taking him in to the hilt until a bony nose was pressed into a mound of wiry blond curls.  
  
Milliardo moaned as the man nursed on his cock, sucking and moving about it as if it were a mother's tit. Strong hands grabbed his buttocks, pulling him in even further and he bucked his hips in time with the man's suction, fucking that glorious, scalding mouth.  
  
Beginning at his spine and blossoming into his groin, an unmistakable crescendo began to build, and his gut fluttered with sensation. Rhythm and repetition began to work against him as the soft mouth beckoned his release, siphoning his pleasure through that one burning point of contact.  
  
He braced himself for the inevitable, arching hard into the that undulating tunnel, the man at his feet shifted to accommodate him , and he came with the smell of leather filling his senses.  
  
"Unghhhh!" he half grunted half screamed as he ejaculated into the warm mouth, the room suddenly white with sparks of pleasure. He felt the other man swallowing the product of his lust, licking and cleaning the softening organ. He almost came again at the mere though of it.  
  
More jingling, more creaking, and the man was face to face with him again.  
  
"I don't know how it looks," he said and Milliardo could smell his own pungent scent on the man's breath, he longed to kiss him, to taste his own essence, "but it tastes wonderful." At that Milliardo lost control again and slipped his hand to the back of the man's head, through a dense blanket of hair, pulling that mouth to his own. He tasted himself on the other man's lips, sweet and salty and sticky, and it made him greedy. His body was suddenly alight again, not sated by its previous activities. He pulled away suddenly, more to speak than for a lack of air.  
  
"How about that fuck you promised me?" he asked breathlessly, moving his hands down to the other's shoulders. The hair beneath his hand slid easily over a smooth surface and he realized the origin of the leather smell, a jacket.  
  
"Whatever you want," was the thrice repeated reply as the other man started to undress.  
  
"No," Milliardo began he felt the leather jacket being shrugged off, "leave it on." There was no reply but he heard a slight chuckle and then some shuffling and jingling. Moments later they were crushed together again, both naked from the waist down, one throbbing erection crashing into a growing one.  
  
Their bodies were hot against each other and the friction was becoming unbearable.  
  
"Do you . . . do you have anything unghhh . . . slippery?" Milliardo managed between moans.  
  
"You won't need it," came the calm and sure reply.  
  
"But--"  
  
"Trust me, will you ?"  
  
Milliardo thought for a moment. The steely erection that rubbed against his own was at least seven inches or more at its current state, much like his own. He'd never taken anyone without lubricant but he was certain it couldn't be pleasant.  
  
"I . . . I don't think-"  
  
"Don't think. Trust me."  
  
There was a short moment of silence. He wanted this so bad. He must be insane!  
  
"Okay," he finally relented and no sooner was the word from his mouth than he found himself being pushed hard against the sink once again. The man lifted one of his legs at the knee, bending it around his waist. Milliardo followed with the other and leaned back a little, giving the man clear access to his hidden entrance. His cock was standing at attention once again and quivered with anticipation as he felt the other man's hot, swollen head at his opening. He relaxed as best he could and prepared for the wounding penetration.  
  
A familiar pressure began at his anus and then, remarkably, the engorged member slid in easily, filling him not with pain, but with several inches of his lover's hard flesh. He gasped at the first sweet contact, surprised by the fluent movement. He pulled with his legs against the other's back, forcing the invading member further, filling him deep and solid. He didn't stop until his ass cheeks met heated flesh.  
  
"You're so good . . ." the other man praised, holding himself still. Milliardo wouldn't have it. He bucked against the other man, slapping skin against skin, clenching his muscles tight around the unmoving organ. From a sudden wave of desire the man began moving rapidly. He moved in and out in short strokes at first, finding Milliardo's prostate with every deliberate stab.  
  
Milliardo reveled in the hot friction building inside him, the glimmers that presented themselves before his vision.  
  
"Harder," he gasped, and was met with compliance as he other man thrusted harder, deeper, drawing out as far as possible and then slamming in to the hilt. Milliardo felt the metal faucet poking roughly into his back with each thrust but it was hardly a distraction. Flesh smacked against flesh, hips against ass, cock against stomach, and still the leather creaked and metal jangled. His stranger was no longer foreign. The man was now an embodiment of certain sounds and smells and unforgettable caresses. He was leather and metal, cock and hair. He was everything Milliardo wanted, and nothing he could live without again.  
  
Rhythm was building again, the ebbing tide crashing against him once more. He reached down to stroke his own bouncing erection, finding it drenched in his own juices. He moved his hand to match every impaling thrust. The man was moving swiftly now, pumping hard and grunting harder, creaking, jingling. The fire in his spine came back and he summoned it wholeheartedly, willing himself into oblivion, and a moment later he shuddered with his second orgasm, screaming incoherently.  
  
His semen came in a hot gush over his hand and stomach, dripping down to pool in and around his navel, even as a shout from his stranger signaled his own release. Milliardo felt the hot splurge shooting inside of him, an explosion against his sensitive inner walls. It penetrated him even further than the hard cock had, filling his cavity, chasing after it's maker as it retreated, dripping warm down his thigh at its exit.  
  
Milliardo breathed hard and heavy as he attempted a recovery. Gratefully, the man held him for a moment, keeping him upright on his wobbly knees.  
  
"You're exquisite," the man whispered in that oh so familiar voice, brushing aside Milliardo's sweaty hair to kiss his open mouth. "Do you want to know now . . . who I am?"  
  
Milliardo thought for a moment, mind still a little foggy from the aftershocks of his orgasm. 'Do I,' he asked himself. 'Would it ever be the same if I knew?' No, he decided, it wouldn't. But he wanted, no, had to know lest he never see this glorious man again. At least he could see him once.  
  
"Yes, please . . . but first, what's your name?"  
  
A soft laugh, "My name? You should know it. You screamed it enough while I was buried inside you."  
  
"I did?" Milliardo was confused. He remembered screaming something, what was it? Gibberish? No. A word. Sex? No . . . that wasn't it. And then it hit him, and he blanched at the realization.  
  
"Zechs?" he asked incredulously, the impossibility of making love to his own alter ego an unbelievable prospect.  
  
Another chuckle and then the lights came on suddenly as if by themselves. He closed his eyes at the unexpected brightness, forcing them open moments later to see what face stood before him.  
  
It was a mirror.  
  
Or at least it could have been one. They were identical in every feature down to the immaculately kept blond mane, only diverging in their choice of clothing. Milliardo stared agog. The man spoke again.  
  
"Now do you understand?" It was his own voice, the reason for its familiarity clear.  
  
"But how . . .you can't . . ."  
  
Another chuckle interrupted him. The other man's aqua eyes were alight with merriment. The chuckle deepened and turned into a laugh, his mouth open wide as he guffawed at the ignorant man before him. Hot air gushing from his lips and blowing over Milliardo's face.  
  
He couldn't take it. How was this happening? A man can't simply be two people at once, he can't exist in two separate but identical bodies.  
  
As if sympathetic to his turbulent mind, the room started to shake. The face before him laughed harder and his world turned upside down, convulsing with the chaos in his head.  
  
And then it all disappeared.  
  
"Zechs!" a sweet voice beckoned him from his dream and he woke with a start, "Are you okay?"  
  
He opened his eyes to see Trowa's soft face looking worriedly at him, tired features still puffy from sleep. He was home, in his bed, with Trowa.  
  
He sighed with relief.  
  
"Trowa," he began, stroking his lover's face, "thank you for waking me. I'm fine now."  
  
"You looked like you were having a nightmare," Trowa replied softly, "But from the looks of this," he regarded a large wet spot on Zechs's side of the bed, "it couldn't have been all bad."  
  
Zechs conceded to the smaller man's point, "No, it wasn't."  
  
"Anything you want to talk about," a slow grin, "maybe something we could try?"  
  
"No," Zechs sighed, "just a warped version of a very old fantasy I thought I'd outgrown."  
  
"Oh," Trowa looked down at the sheet, disappointed.  
  
It pained Zechs to see the defeated look on his koi's face. He wanted to make it up to him, and maybe, just maybe, there was a window of opportunity presenting itself.  
  
"Well," he began and Trowa lifted his head to peer into sparkling aqua pools, "maybe we . . . how do you feel about wigs?"  
  
end


End file.
